Alas, poor shepherd, searching of thy wound

Rosalind
Alas, poor shepherd, searching of thy wound,
I have by hard adventure found mine own.
Touchstone
And I mine. I remember when I was in
love I broke my sword upon a stone and bid him
take that for coming a-night to Jane Smile; and I
remember the kissing of her batler, and the cow’s
dugs that her pretty chopped hands had milked;
and I remember the wooing of a peascod instead of
her, from whom I took two cods and, giving her
them again, said with weeping tears “Wear these for
my sake.” We that are true lovers run into strange
capers. But as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature
in love mortal in folly.
Rosalind
Thou speak'st wiser than thou art ware of.
Touchstone
Nay, I shall ne'er be ware of mine own
wit till I break my shins against it.
Rosalind
Jove, Jove! This shepherd's passion
Is much upon my fashion.
Touchstone
And mine, but it grows something stale
with me.